


Painful Recollections

by MagicTheShippening



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 22:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14270757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicTheShippening/pseuds/MagicTheShippening
Summary: Sorin Markov is trapped after the events of Eldritch Moon. Weeks into his torturous existence he gets a visit from an old "friend". Will eventually delve into both Sorin's and Tibalt's pasts and evolve into maybe something more. Tibalt's abilities changed to be catharsis in addition to pain.





	Painful Recollections

**CHAPTER ONE: ON INNISTRAD**

 

_A pain without description indeed._

 

Sorin would laugh at himself if the jagged rock didn’t pierce further into his skin with every small movement.

 

Even as a vampire, Sorin’s every nerve was on end, warning him that his body was in danger as if he wasn’t already aware.

 

Trapped in a wall, day after day, week after week, with no food, no sustenance Sorin got intimately aware of just how much pain he was really in. Once you’ve lived thousands of years, a few months of pain and solitary confinement was nothing to Sorin, but he knew how long he could go without feeding and that time was almost up.

 

He’d given up shouting after a few days, the uselessness apparent to him. Olivia wouldn’t come for him, and no one else on Innistrad cared enough about the descendent of an all but dead lineage, nor did they know where he was if they cared.

 

If he ever got out of this (when), he would make sure the lithomancer paid for what she had done to his manor, his plane, his daught-his angel.

 

From his vantage and through the pain, Innistrad changed before his eyes. The Eldrazi Titan Emrakul’s influence still infected his home, but her children were slowly being driven off by the newly founded Church of Sigarda. Different factions vying for control. Monsters come out of the shadows, heroes rising to combat them.

 

Right now he watched as heron-clad ghost warriors surround and impale a tentacled werewolf horror cleansing the world of another of Emrakul’s brood.

 

Sorin sighed, combining his exhaustion of the predictable patterns his plane falls into with the relief that (despite the lithomancer’s meddling) much remains the same on Innistrad. The result is a sharp stab in his side.

 

“There you are, Sorin. I’ve been looking all over the multiverse for you.”

 

_Tibalt._

 

The air in front of Sorin shimmered slightly before the skinny frame of the immaculately dressed half-devil appeared in front of him carrying a basket in one hand and two wine glasses in the other.

 

Tibalt prattled endlessly as he placed the basket gently down in front of Sorin, swapped his wine glasses for a fantastically black lace blanket that he laid out in front of Sorin, his nasally voice happily recounted with the air of a town gossip.

 

“Zendikar, Kaladesh, Amonkhet. I must’ve travelled half the multiverse to find you. You know, I had to go all the way to Kamigawa. Kamigawa, Markov! I figured the moon lady and her little  _circle_  must’ve heard word of you somewhere. They had. And so we traded tales. I don’t think she liked mine very much. And I don’t think her spawn appreciated my sense of humor. But then again, who does?”

 

Tibalt laid the blanket out on the cold rock in front of Sorin’s prison and the vampire searched for the right words to address his unwanted conversation partner. With the stone lattice blocking his lungs, he had to choose his words carefully. As he contemplated, Tibalt blathered on.

 

“So much has been going on since we last met. Zendikar’s been better. Kaladesh’s government is completely different and word is Ugin’s old flame recently laid waste to Amonkhet. I just had to see the chaos for myself. It was beautiful. Corpses everywhere. Speaking of ol’ Bolas, what do you think the deal is with the egg on his forehead? Is he incubating it? Can he incubate?”

 

Throughout, Tibalt laid out pewter silverware on the blanket with his tail and uncorked the bottle effortlessly with his long gnarled nails. The pungent iron stench of blood began permeating the air, exciting Sorin’s senses. Tibalt poured the two glasses full of crimson blood.

 

“I brought you something. Mirran, your favorite, of course. So hard to come by pure these days.”

 

He pulled out a loaf of flatbread from the basket and placed it on a serving tray with a selection of cheeses from various planes.

 

“What do you think of the motley crew that label themselves the Gatewatch? Tamiyo told me all about them while searching for you. I just can’t believe it, they actually believe they can protect the multiverse.”

 

Tibalt ripped some of the flat bread spread some Nayan cheese on it and dipped the edge of it into his cup. He took a large bite and chewed slowly, savoring the flavor, and he continued, his mouth full and front teeth now stained in blood.

 

“I heard the muscle can make himself indestructible. My, my, how I’d love to test his limits...oh, don’t worry Markov, you know I only have eyes for you!”

 

Tibalt cackled, cruel, high-pitched and loud.

 

“You know, they tried to make Tamiyo swear an oath and everything in order to join their little band. An oath, can you believe it...what a joke.”

 

Sorin suddenly spat on the ground, bile and tainted blood mixed into the dust and dirt.

 

“You’re a joke.”

 

Tibalt’s head bolted up excitedly, his eyes shining at the recognition

 

“He speaks! How exciting!” Tibalt tilted his head to the side, ever the curious dog.

 

“You’re a joke”, Sorin repeated. Another jolt of pain.

 

Tibalt’s face drops. He puts down his food, stands up and slowly walks to Sorin, making a mess of the spread he previously set, as he carelessly steps across the blanket to stare Sorin square in his eyes. Tibalt’s features seemed to lengthen and heat waves emanated off of him; devils coming from seemingly nowhere climbed about Sorin’s prison, cackling and spreading the heat.

 

It felt to Sorin as though the stones puncturing in his side seemed to lengthen, until he realized that Tibalt’s residual pain magic was causing his nerves to be sharpened, until he felt every inch of pain as he had when he was first trapped. Sorin would cry out in pain if he wasn’t afraid of making the pain more, instead he gritted his teeth and waited for some, any respite.

 

Then, as soon as it came it was gone.

 

Tibalts frown lifted and he laughed again, louder than ever.

 

“Am I a funny joke?”

 

Honestly Sorin I’m more than a little disappointed in you. I would have thought the Lord of Innistrad above such low insults.  _Whoever_  put you in this must’ve done quite a number on you, I mean…in  _addition_  to the whole trapped-in-a-wall thing.” Tibalt walked over and kicked the bottom of the stone.

 

“How did you end up like this anyway?”

 

“Nahiri”

 

“Na-who-y”

 

“Lithomancer.”

 

“Lithomancer?”

 

Sorin sighed and in an act that took Tibalt aback, he pleaded.

 

“Tibalt…please…the pain.”

 

“Avacyn above, you really are in a tremendous amount of pain aren’t you?”

 

“Let me out.”

“Now hold on, my lord. I just thought of an interesting proposition. It seems that I’m the only friend you have left who’s willing to help you, correct?”

 

“…yes…”

 

“It’s nice to be called a friend, Markov. Now I can ease your pain, and I can let you out, I can even provide you with what looks like much needed sustenance. But with all good things, it comes with a price.”

 

“What?”

 

“Now you called me a joke earlier. And to be honest, I AM a huge mess. But that really hurt.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“That’s nice to say but I know you’re not. Here’s the deal, Markov. I’m going to ease up the pain of your wounds for a bit, during which I will feed you and we can talk like civilized…people. Once I’ve deemed our conversation complete, I’ll let you out, to pursue whatever revenge fantasies your heart desires. Do we have a deal?”

 

Sorin hated being in this position, and he hated the devil planeswalker even more, a constant annoyance to everyone around him. But he hated Nahiri more than either and thus the Lord of Innistrad acquiesced to a simple pain mage.

 

“Yes.” Sorin responded, his jaw clenched in pain and obstinacy.

 

“Great!” Tibalt clapped his hands together and wisps of red energy emptied out of Sorin’s body and entered mirror locations of his wounds on Tibalt’s. Tibalt’s face grimaced in a mad smile and he clenched both fists in response to the transference.

 

Sorin’s pain eased and he felt himself able to speak freely for the first time in weeks.

 

“Blood. Please, Tibalt.”

 

“Of course.” Tibalt picked the bottle knocked over moments ago and tipped the edge into Sorin’s grateful jaw. The blood sloshed around Sorin felt a surge of energy as the lifeforce entered the system. The devil was right; Mirran  _was_ his favorite. Tibalt pulled away just as soon as he was sated. Sorin coughed and looked begrudgingly thankful in Tibalt’s eyes.

 

“So what are we discussing, devil.”

 

“Well…I wanted to tell you a story…”

 

**ON INNISTRAD 7 YEARS AGO**

 

The sun set over the misty hills of Innistrad as the ominous moon comes into focus over the nightmare of a plane. The Havengul townsfolk board up their windows and place their symbols into place, Avacyn’s protection a sliver of hope amongst the rising darkness. On a large hill overlooking the town sits the large manor of famed merchant Ludevic of Ulm. The most prevalent form of speech in the manor is yelling, which, like most nights, peals through the halls as homunculi carry various books from room to room.

 

“Apprentice Pavlovski! Experiments starts at dusk! Not a second after!”

 

A sharp-featured pale young man with cropped brown hair quickly looks up from an ancient tome with a worried look and bolts out of his seat. As he gathers his papers, his master’s shout repeats, causing him to trip over the legs of his chair and face plants on the floor, his research flittering about the room. 

“Pavlovski!”

 

Tibalt knows not to make his master angry, but he can’t help it. He’s a ravenous reader and is ready to stitch.


End file.
